Rick married Jennifer as the new millennium dawned, signaling a new era for humankind and our family. Like he, Jen was cut from a different cloth. Musical, an eclectic foodie and frank, Jennifer brought an entirely different dynamic to our family. We the people, committed to fostering an atmosphere of denial, were called out on the carpet by Jennifer, usually for our own good and sometimes much to our strong opposition.
To illustrate the Jen-effect, the adult family was gathered around the table one night early in their marriage. We were dealing with some minor conflict, an issue that had produced a palpable level of angst. It had something to do with Mom (a.k.a. Sue), who was noticeably upset but not willing to express herself verbally. We all got that, and basically everybody was just waiting for it to go away, without any meaningful words. God, please tell us there weren’t going to be any meaningful words.
Jen, who had only said her “I do’s, I don’ts, and I wont’s” a couple of months earlier and didn’t understand the rules of engagement, or thought they were ridiculous, or thought that since she was now having shower sex with my brother that it gave her new street cred, boldly broke the coveted silence. “I think we should talk about how we each feel about this, starting with Sue,” she began, cracking the foundation our lives had been lived upon for so long. “Sometimes, I don’t want to talk about my emotions and I think it’s about self-confidence … Self-confidence is something many of us in this room have struggled with or are struggling with. If we talk this out it will be better … much better.”
Really? Better? What does better mean? What in the hell was she doing? Didn’t she understand how this was supposed to work? Surely there was some sort of pre-nup she and Rick had signed: “WE DON’T TALK ABOUT HOW WE FEEL IN FRONT OF THE GROUP, ESPECIALLY WHEN WE ARE ALL SOBER AND ALL IN THE SAME ROOM …” If you had downed a couple of bottles of Chablis—or were in the process of doing so —and were on a dark porch in Galveston at one in the morning and there were fewer than four people involved (not including the people eavesdropping from a bedroom window), then it was cool, but not at 7:45 p.m. on a freaking Wednesday.
Until that moment, I had never seen so much shock, alarm and panic—in unison—on the faces of my immediate family. It was as if someone had taken all their clothes off and asked us to look at a menacing boil on their personal parts. Or had just announced their secret desire to marry one of our cousins—OK, that really did happen, but that’s another story.
My husband, Willie, covertly set off his own pager, fleeing the room to make a pretend phone call. He’d been in the game for about seven years and knew better, plus his family didn’t want to discuss their feelings either. Maybe that fact about my in-laws, their respect for denial, outweighed the fact that they all had gigantic heads. Those oversized heads never really seemed like a big deal until I got wheeled into the delivery room to give birth to their descendants. Then I recalled the circumference, through gritted teeth, repeating words that my father said made me sound like I wasn’t an adult. In my opinion, once you’ve passed a few big babies through the canal, you’re just as much an adult as anyone else, no matter what kind of words you use.
AS Jennifer reviewed those bystanders still standing, presumably waiting for an answer that would never come, Kim kicked me under the table and then gave me a “WTF?” look combined with the curious hint of a smile. Regardless of the alarm bells that were going off, it was kind of funny—in a sick, twisted way.
Dad, always a total people pleaser and masterful at avoiding conflict, looked at me, his dependable, serviceable child, and said, “I think Jen’s right, let’s talk about it.” I, never wanting to disagree with the man I so admired, nodded vigorously enough to seem bought in but not enough to have my sister punch me in the stomach in the half bath.
As for my mom, the unfortunate direct target of feelings central, she clutched her Pekinese and ran out of the room, nearly hitting the door frame on the way out.
Silence fell upon the group once again, only this time it was laced with a heavy powdering of awkwardness. Mercifully, after what seemed like seven minutes of cruel quiet, my brother finally shut things down. “Well, it was good seeing you guys tonight,” he said, as he took Jen by the arm and exited quickly and professionally. Here was a man who respected denial; he was raised right, like me.
We have never spoken of the instance since it happened— we never investigated our feelings, our actions, our reactions, or what any of it meant to our family dynamics. It wasn’t that we didn’t care, it’s that we cared enough not to. Thank God for that.
AS for me, I was, and am, the classic middle child. I have always seen myself as not the first and not the boy, so, I was just me, and I never knew what that was, exactly. She was pretty, he had a penis, and, well, I was funny. Really, to be fair, she was beautiful, he had enough potency in his business to father five children, and I was hilarious.
It never seemed enough.
Whether I had adopted the persona, and accompanying baggage, of the middle child purposefully, or instead my position in the family was cemented by reality, no one knew, especially not me. Enthusiastic, a pleaser, considered humorous by some and obnoxious by others, I fancied myself a harnesser of the pen. I had for years tried to get someone to notice, and, when they did, I wanted them swiftly out of my business. I had minimal fashion sense and rhythmic skills that only I could see. My mind, though well-used, was not necessarily brilliant. Though not unattractive, I was pretty in a decidedly Tina Yothers kind of way, mixing Family Ties with Princess Fergie to come up with a bushy head of hair, a solid frame and a flat face. My early battle with beauty—for I am alluringly attractive in present day —may have been because I was wholly uncomfortable with makeup, hair doing, and fashion. It’s not that I didn’t care, it’s that I wasn’t born with that chip that instinctually tells you when and when not to wear pantyhose, which kind of bra to wear, and how and why to apply eye shadow.
My life wasn’t perfect and I loved it that way. As I approached my later forties I had started looking backward less frequently but with a growing sentimentality. Perhaps I was beginning to forget all the curves and edges of my childhood and would one day be left with only a glowing, warm feeling.
That natural process had gotten blown up earlier in the year, when Dad was in town watching the boys while Willie and I took a work trip. It was an innocent conversation that lasted only a few moments, but I kept going back to it. “The biggest fights your mom and I ever had,” he had said, sitting there with a can of Bud Light in his hand, “were about you. I tried to protect you …” he added, and then looked away. That’s where it ended, when my younger son dashed through the room with our one-hundred-pound dog following close behind.
Though I didn’t fully understand what he meant, I had never brought it up again during his visit and hadn’t seen him or been home since. It was as shocking as it was casual.
WHILE Mary looked confidently ahead into the clouds, I exhaled and settled into my seat. Blind trust and the blaring noise of the plane began to lull me until I struggled to keep my eyes open. I would have never thought I could sleep in a small single-engine plane piloted by someone I barely knew, but somehow slumber caught me by surprise, and I was out. Open-mouthed slobber time was upon us.
Chapter Two
COORDINATES
I was awoken by the voices inside my head—this time they were real. I knew we must be near Houston because the chatter had ramped up. I felt fuzzy, which was not unusual as I was not prone to catnapping and experienced difficulty re-emerging quickly from daytime sleep.
I looked over to Mary, she smiled back at me knowingly— not like “nice slobber” but more like “hello, dear”—a look that was almost too intimate. As I continued to return to a cognitive state, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something seemed different, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. She looked different, I felt different … it even smelled different.
Glancing back across the cockpit casually, trying not to co
me across as a freaky stalker, I realized that she did look different. I wasn’t sure what she had been wearing when we embarked, or what her hair had looked like previously, but she was definitely transformed.
Again, Mary caught me glancing at her, and again, she smiled at me, knowingly. Good God, she was cocking her head ever so slightly to the right, like a cute young pup. Maybe I was a freak, OK yes, I was, but still, something wasn’t right. Looking quickly back down at my own lap to avoid her glance, I made a shocking realization.
My skinny jeans, boots and sweater had morphed into some snug-fitting plaid pants. The color combo was mesmerizing—a blaring yellow-gold background, like the harvest-gold refrigerator my mom had in the ’70s—offset with a brown check and narrow white gridlines. It was as if a roll of Scotch tape had exploded on my legs. Then there was a turtleneck sweater, ribbed, I suppose, for my pleasure. It was the same yellow-gold as the pant. It was seriously tight and for some unknown reason had a zipper at the back neck opening. I couldn’t see it, but I could definitely feel it.
Speaking of secret feelings, I suddenly realized that the sweater didn’t end where it ought to. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like the ribbed goodness kept going past its normal, pre-established boundary. What I’m saying is, it felt like it covered my panty. Yes, it seemed like it truly did cover the panty area, front and back. And, if I wiggled just so, I could feel snaps. In my crotch. This was indeed a pullover turtleneck, but it was also a snap-crotch half-bodysuit. I had never worn such a garment, or seen one in person, but I had come across something similar on a blog dedicated to offensive items from vintage catalogs.
Though my shirt might now stay perfectly tucked into my tape-dispenser pants, if engaged in the consumption of adult beverages later, and if I then waited too long to go to the bathroom, I might be at risk of peeing my pants whilst searching frantically for the escape hatch.
You see, my crotch was snapped shut.
Before I could even begin to feel the deep, desperate itch that only man-made fabrics can cause, the wheels of the Comanche touched the runway. I had never landed at the West Houston Airport, a smaller tract designed for, I had assumed, non-commercial aircraft, so I had no idea what to expect. Pulling slowly to a stop in front of the terminal building, I saw a sign welcoming us to “David Wayne Hooks Memorial Airport” which was not on the west side of Houston but instead located on the far northwest side. I knew that because it wasn’t far from where I had grown up. It was the home of the “Aviator’s Grill” which our neighbor had always claimed was the next best thing to Red Lobster. She had religiously eaten there once a week, and I had always wondered what that was all about because she had no dealings in airplanes, or airports, or flying lessons. She had spent many an indulgent few moments regaling us, as she stood in her front yard in unbecoming shorts, with tales of her favorite dish, the “Loop De Loop” which was, apparently, a grilled chicken Caesar salad. She was a regular and even had a t-shirt that said “Aviator’s Grill … Food Worth Landing For.” As far as I knew, she had never landed for it, she’d only driven to it, in her Ford Country Squire station wagon, complete with wood paneling and that little fold-up, rear-facing seat in the way back.
Maybe there had been a change to the flight plan while I had been whacking my head against the window and slinging slobber across the cabin? Either way, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to question Mary. She evidently knew what she was doing … after all, she was the certified pilot who had gotten us safely from point A to point B. She could taxi on a runway.
Disembarking from the plane, any hopes I still harbored for normalcy were completely extinguished. My shoes had changed, and even my luggage, which was being pulled from the backseat of the aircraft by a man with huge, bushy sideburns, was unequivocally altered.
Mary’s hair was alarmingly poufy, featuring a hard part directly down the middle of her head. She was wearing a polyester, kelly-green pantsuit complete with a clingy dress shirt with an enormous bow at the neckline. I would have never said it to her face, but Mary looked like the hand-drawn model off of a dress pattern packet from a garage sale. She seriously looked like a homeroom mom, or like somebody who was about to whip out a cocktail and one of those Jell-O molds with meat floating in it. As she unbuckled her seat belt and stood just outside the plane, I could also see that Mary, who I’d seen in a wide variety of situations requiring a wide range of fashion choices, was rocking the high-waisted pant. Seriously, those pants went northwards to where no decent pant should ever venture.
I didn’t know what to think. Yet I still couldn’t work up the nerve to ask Mary what was going on, she was acting so naturally. I didn’t think I was dreaming, as I didn’t get the feeling I usually experienced that kept me thinking “yes, this is a dream; this is a dream.” That sensation always kept fantasy and reality carefully separated, so while I was experiencing something that felt real, I knew it wasn’t (i.e. if I drive off this road it’s not real, I’m not really going to die, or, if I have sexual relations with this policeman in tight pants, who is not my husband, nobody will ever know, because it didn’t really happen).
This time was different. Something deep down inside told me this was real, not something I would wake up from.
AS I tried to figure out how I was supposed to carry all my stuff, Mary came around the plane cheerily and handed me a jacket. It was Houston in November, so while it wasn’t cold, at all, it also wasn’t hot. I put the blazer-like item on without even thinking. Looking down, I noticed that the brown in the jacket matched the brown in my plaid pants perfectly. These were what the Sears catalog used to call coordinates. Running my hands across the front, I realized that something had been placed in each of the large pockets—a small notebook and orange Bic pen on one side and a tube of lipstick on the other.
Walking through the small terminal building I noticed a deluge of other oddities—most of them involving exposed chest hair, wood paneling and orange carpet. The smell of burnt coffee and cigarettes was thick in the air. I trudged through the inside and out onto the triangular-shaped parking lot—zombielike—in a fog. There were a dozen or so later-model cars, predominantly American made and in a wide and awful array of colors and finishes. I stumbled along behind Mary, toting my ugly luggage with no wheels or extending handles. By the time I had managed to get midway through the parking lot, I was staggering, not so much because I was confused, and I was, but instead, because like most people, I was struggling to carry a three-piece suitcase set with only two hands.
The original plan had been that we would meet up in the airport parking lot (the West Houston one, not this one) with my father, sister, and brother. From there, we could continue on to our late-morning appointment with the attorney and financial advisor. There would be papers to sign. I couldn’t sign papers dressed like this. Normally, I would have been up for it, wearing this kind of thing in public, but not for paper signing. Dad had always told us to dress up for document dealings, and though I was certainly “dressed up,” I don’t think this is what he meant.
Mary looked back at me, “You coming?” she shouted, still smiling, still head cocking. The best reply I could muster was a halfhearted smile and slight nod. She seemed so damn cheerful and confident, as if nothing unusual was occurring and that the whole world had not been suddenly turned upside down.
Had she seen the chest hair, I ask you, had she seen it?
Stopping at the last car in the lot, she turned again, almost too patiently, almost too happily. It wasn’t that she hadn’t ever been nice to me, it was more like she was acting like she knew me better than I knew she did. Finally catching up with her at the car, I stared down at it as if I had never seen a motor vehicle. It was huge, that is in length, but curiously short, like a low rider. It was silver with a maroon faux-leather top, so faux, it may not have even been vinyl. I loved cars, always had, and thought it looked like a Ford LTD, possibly a midseventies model, a long, sprawling four-door.
Utilizing an actual key, Mar
y unlocked the trunk so we could place our bags inside. It was massive—we could have both gotten in and still had room for all our bags, the spare tire, and one of my children, the big one. “Let’s go,” she chirped as she unlocked the driver’s side door, again with a key, this one a different shape than the first. Once inside, she slid across and unlocked my side by pulling a long silver nail out of the top of the door.
Divided by the huge armrests, we were almost sitting in different zip codes. The seats were velvet-like, they and every inch of the interior the same maroon as the vinyl top. If I had not been so distracted by my obvious parallel universe predicament, I may have well been concerned about the red velvet material permanently sticking to my ridiculously tight polyester pants. Adding little maroon bits to my Scotch tape wouldn’t have done anything to enhance my new look.
Mary looked tiny behind the enormous wheel. As impressive as it was that she could drive an actual airplane, I wondered if she could maneuver the gigantic car onto the main road. Somehow, she managed to swing it around and out of the parking lot like she had been doing just that her entire life. The life I knew nothing about.
We were on our way.
Though it sounds bizarre, I didn’t even think to wonder where we were going. I wasn’t going to lunch with my family. That was out. No Leslie’s Chicken Salad, no #38 from the Margarita’s in Huntsville or Conroe. Yes, no Old Mexico Style Tacos. And so, I sat deep in the plush plushness, like an idiot, still not able to muster up the courage to ask Mary what the hell was going on.
SLOWLY, but not slowly enough, we traveled the roads nearby the airport. Though the route seemed eerily familiar, it, and basically everything I could see, was surreal. I guess I was aware of where we were, but it just didn’t make any sense. What was apparently reality was not registering. I needed to hurl. After about fifteen to twenty minutes of pleasing scenery that I couldn’t allow myself to connect with, the kind of pastoral setting that doesn’t reveal age, we drove toward a landmark I certainly could not deny was real; the brick edifice where I had attended kindergarten through fifth grade, Northampton Elementary School.
You Cannot Mess This Up Page 2
